Which Mother's Day? Women weep for children killed by State

As the world celebrates Mother’s Day today, many women will be showered with flowers, heartfelt cards, and warm embraces from their children and loved ones.

It’s a day meant to honor the beauty of motherhood—its sacrifices, joys, and unyielding love. But for some Kenyan mothers, this year’s Mother’s Day will be steeped in sorrow. For them, the day serves as a painful reminder of children lost too soon during the June 25, 2024, anti-Finance Bill protests, where police brutality extinguished the dreams of a generation.

These mothers, instead of receiving breakfast in bed or hearing the laughter of their children, are grappling with unbearable grief, unanswered questions, and a justice system that seems indifferent to their pain. Their stories are a stark contrast to the global celebration of motherhood, revealing a wound that refuses to heal.

In a modest tin-walled home in Eastleigh, Nairobi, Edith Wanjiku sits clutching her son’s clothes, her eyes swollen from tears. “Ibrahim’s smile was my strength. Now, all I have is silence,” she whispers. Her 21-year-old son, Ibrahim Kamau Wanjiku, was a boda boda rider with a bright future. He was full of energy, always eager to help his family, until tragedy struck on June 25, 2024.

“The last time I saw him was Monday evening, June 24th,” Edith recalls, her voice trembling. “He was his usual cheerful self, promising to be back soon.” But the next day, as protests against the Finance Bill 2024 swept through Nairobi, Ibrahim joined his friends in the streets. By evening, he was gone.

• .

  Keep Reading

• 
  Gen Z must not let pride steal their movement's purpose
• 
  Dribbling Raila dishes out hope amid growing discord in ODM
• 
  Which Mother's Day? Women weep for children killed by State
• 
  Mother mourns son killed during Gen Z riots, seeks justice

Edith recounts the day with haunting clarity. “His friends came to our house asking for toothpaste to soothe their eyes from tear gas. They were nervous, as if hiding something, but I didn’t understand why.” As night fell, her worry deepened. “I kept calling his phone. It rang, but no one answered. Eventually, his friends admitted they hadn’t seen him since the protests.”

By 10 p.m., Ibrahim hadn’t returned. Edith waited until midnight, her fears growing with each passing hour. “I couldn’t sit still. I decided to search every hospital with my relatives. Walking from Kenyatta Hospital to Mbagathi, checking critical patients and unknown casualties—it was a nightmare I’ll never forget.”

Her voice breaks as she continues. “I found him at the city mortuary. He was lying there, bloodied, still wearing his favorite pink jacket, black jeans, and open shoes. There were eight bodies, and my son was the second one I saw.” The image is seared into her memory, a wound that time cannot heal.

As a Muslim, Edith wanted to bury Ibrahim quickly, per tradition. But the police frustrated her efforts. “They sent me in circles for three days, delaying the release of his body,” she says. With support from Amnesty International and her local MCA, she finally brought him home, but the ordeal left her broken.

Edith was only 17 when she gave birth to Ibrahim, raising him with the help of her mother, who treated him like her own. “Motherhood has been a struggle, not just for me but for my mother, who lost a grandchild she adored,” she reflects. “This Mother’s Day feels hollow. I have two other children, but Ibrahim was the light of our home—obedient, responsible, and full of joy.”

Despite losing her job, Edith worked tirelessly to educate her children. “Ibrahim was different. He grew up in the ghetto but stayed away from drugs and alcohol. He held onto his values.” A year later, the pain remains raw. “I see his smiling face every day, just as it was the last time he left.”

Edith cannot let go of Ibrahim’s belongings. “His shoes, his shirts—I’ve given some to his cousins in the village, but letting go feels like forgetting him. I still hope, somehow, he’ll walk through that door.”

A Family Shattered

In Nakuru, Maria Shikwe is grappling with the loss of her 18-year-old autistic son, Austin Onyisa, whose death during the protests remains shrouded in mystery. “That morning, I asked Austin and his younger brother, who is also autistic, to get ready so we could update their medical records on the eCitizen platform,” Maria recalls. After completing their errands, they returned home around 1 p.m., but her younger son was missing.

Concerned, Maria sent Austin to look for him. Moments later, she went out to search as well. When she returned, neither son was home. As protests escalated, tear gas filled the air, and gunshots echoed in the distance. By 7 p.m., her sons were still missing.

“I walked from one police station to another, desperate for answers. When that failed, I visited every hospital on foot until 10 p.m.,” she says. Doctors advised her to return the next morning, as many injured protesters were still in surgery. At dawn, Maria resumed her search. One hospital instructed her to check all wards, then delivered devastating news: call your relatives, bring your pastor. In the morgue, she found Austin.

“There he was, my son. But they mislabelled his age, saying he was 30. I was in shock. He wasn’t even protesting—he was just looking for his brother,” Maria says, tears streaming down her face. “He was with me that morning, safe. Then he was gone.”

Maria reported the case to the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA), but no progress has been made. “I keep waiting for a call that never comes,” she says. Life without Austin is unbearable. Her younger son, non-verbal and unable to understand road safety, relies on her completely. “Austin was responsible despite his autism. He helped with chores, cared for the house, and watched over his brother,” she says.

Austin loved music, often dancing by the door. “He was quiet, joyful. He didn’t deserve this,” Maria says. “Now, his brother stares at his photo, unable to comprehend the loss.”

Faith Nafula Atsangu, a counseling psychologist, explains that losing a child to violence is a uniquely devastating trauma. “Grief is not linear—it comes in waves. For mothers who lost children during the protests, healing is especially difficult because these were abrupt, unjust deaths,” she says. “It’s not just mourning—it’s confusion, rage, and helplessness.”

Grief unfolds in stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Many mothers linger in denial, hoping their child might return, or spiral into depression, unable to function. “Some eventually reach acceptance, learning to live with the pain, but the journey is deeply personal,” Nafula says. Unresolved grief can lead to chronic stress, weakening the immune system and increasing health risks.

Nafula urges mothers to seek support. “Talk to a therapist, join a support group, or reconnect with activities that bring joy. You’re not alone.” As a mother, she adds, “We were individuals before we became mothers. We had dreams, hobbies, laughter. Grief cannot consume our entire identity. Self-care is survival.”

A Nation’s Failure

Edith and Maria are among 63 families mourning children lost during the June 2024 protests, sparked by opposition to the Finance Bill 2024’s punitive tax hikes.

Peaceful demonstrations turned deadly when police used tear gas and live ammunition. Amnesty International reported at least 75 people killed or injured, many unarmed.

The Kenya Human Rights Commission condemned the excessive force, demanding independent investigations.

The government’s response has been inadequate. While officials promised inquiries, no officers have faced prosecution. Frustrated, grieving parents have filed a petition demanding accountability, compensation, a public inquiry, and mental health support.

Gillian Munyao, known as Mama Rex, has become a symbol of resistance after losing her 19-year-old son, Rex Masai. “You left me with no last words,” she says. Leading vigils and petitions, she faces obstacles, including witnesses too scared to testify.

A BBC Africa Eye documentary showing police firing at protesters confirmed families’ suspicions of impunity.

“I’ve gone to IPOA, Amnesty, LSK—everywhere,” says Carolyn Mutisya, whose 21-year-old son, Erickson, was shot holding only a water bottle. “We saw the officers’ faces in that video. Why hasn’t anything been done?”

The silence from President William Ruto’s office deepens the pain. “He said he would call me. He never did,” says the mother of 12-year-old Kennedy Onyango, killed far from the protests.

For these mothers, Mother’s Day is not a celebration but a cruel reminder of loss. “I don’t know what I’m celebrating,” says Maria. “I feel empty.” Their fight for justice continues, a testament to a mother’s unbreakable love.